


On the Same Advice

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Accidents, Anal Sex, Control Issues, Eddie U-Hauls it after they kill the clown, Eddie wets his pants, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Humiliation kink, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Has a Big Dick, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Under-negotiated Kink, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23356720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eddie didn't know his weird sex thing had an origin story until he saw Richie again.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 33
Kudos: 377
Collections: Anonymous





	On the Same Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags! Eddie's humiliation kink is kept only to himself and Richie (and fantasies), but there are several scenes involving wetting accidents. 
> 
> The title comes from a line in Frank Ocean's Self Control: "Wish I was there, wish we'd grown up on the same advice."

It started because he had to work late one evening. For Eddie, who liked working late because he had nothing going on in his empty apartment, it wasn’t much of an imposition on his schedule, but it did throw him off. Instead of a noon lunch break he went at two, and he didn’t use the bathroom afterward the way he usually did. By the time he locked his office for the day, he hadn’t pissed since the morning, and when he reached his car, his bladder was very heavy and his lower abdomen was tight against the band of his pants. He spared a moment of irritation at himself for forgetting to go before he left, but home was fifteen minutes away and he was fine, if uncomfortable.

Eddie enjoyed driving, especially in the evening when everyone was going home after work and he could think about what he had or hadn’t accomplished during the day while he listened to the radio and yelled at bad drivers. He liked it when the sun was going down and the headlights were all coming on, and he could smell the exhaust that his mother insisted would make him sick. Just as he relaxed into his drive, however, he looked ahead and saw a long line of red taillights and realized it wasn’t just busy. Traffic was stalled. After a second, he heard sirens. Some kind of accident. That could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to three hours.

His bladder was so heavy. He was angry again that he hadn’t gone to the bathroom while he was still at work, and he took a couple of deep breaths and pulled out his phone. The traffic report said what he already suspected, that a car accident had stalled everything for several miles, and no one had any idea when it would be resolved. Well, he thought, he had plenty of work he could be doing while he was stuck, and it was better to distract himself from the physical discomfort anyway.

Half an hour later, his car had moved forty feet. He had answered three emails and begun to review a new file. Despite his refusal to think about it, he had to piss more urgently than he could ever remember – except maybe once or twice as a kid. In a quiet, secret part of him, he was starting to panic. He could hold it, of course. It was just very uncomfortable, that was all. Urine had begun to slide down and almost out of his dick, and he didn’t like that he had to tighten his muscles to bring it under control. Not that it would come out, he wasn’t concerned about that, but it hurt. He tried deep breathing again, but it pushed down on his bladder and he went back to his email instead.

Suddenly the lights ahead of him began to blink and everyone moved forward. He shivered in relief and tightened his muscles again as they threatened to relax. He was sweating, even in the perfect temperature control of his Escalade, but it was over now and he would be home soon, using his own toilet.

The cars stopped again. He grunted in irritation and shifted in his seat to alleviate the pressure, but that was a mistake. Now that he had shifted around once, it took more and more to make the pressure go away, and in a few minutes he was squirming constantly. He wouldn’t resort to grabbing onto his dick like a little kid, he swore. He had better control than that. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip and unbuttoned his pants, which felt three sizes too small. That helped for a few minutes. The rising urge to piss died down until he only had to clench every so often, and he went back to his email. His team was going to wonder what they’d done wrong, but fuck them anyway, they were always doing something wrong.

Another few minutes and they were rolling forward again, and he sighed, trying not to notice how shaky he was. They stopped again in another twenty feet, and that was when he felt a hard swelling of pressure between his legs. He was going to piss _now_ , he thought, and gripped the head of his cock and pinched it. Oh, it hurt. He squeezed mercilessly until the pressure abated for a moment, but it swelled up again, and he had to pinch himself hard. He looked around him to see if anyone in the other cars could see what he was doing. No, none of them were positioned high enough above his window to see him with his left hand in his open fly. They might see how much he was squirming, however, in the light from the other cars. He tried to stop his hips from moving and couldn’t, squeezing his thighs together and apart, together and apart.

And then it happened. There was another swelling of pressure, and even pinching himself couldn’t stop a small spurt of urine from spilling into his underwear. He ground his hand against the head of his dick and was able to stop anything else from coming out, whimpering. He turned on his phone’s flashlight and looked at his underwear. They were plain white briefs, no fuss, and there was a wet spot on them. It was small but obvious even in the light of the phone. _I peed_ , he thought. _I fucking pissed myself_. He moved his dick away from the wet spot but couldn’t stop touching it. It didn’t matter that no one else would ever know. He had lost control, if only for less than a second. The other cars and the highway all seemed far away. He tried not to think he might wet his pants. He was a fucking adult, and that wasn’t going to happen.

There was another wave of pressure, and he moaned through it, abandoning all attempts to be still and quiet. Another quick, hot spurt, longer than the first. He was afraid to look, but when he did he saw it was bad. The first stain was only the size of a quarter, and this went all the way down the length of his cock. The fabric had become transparent, and he could clearly see the head of his cock. Just as he was about to turn off the phone, another spurt escaped and he watched the urine spread downward again, making the underwear glisten for a moment. His balls were wet, he thought with rising horror, but before he could grasp that, the cars ahead of him began to move, and continued to move. They crawled along but didn’t stop. He passed passed by a tow truck carrying what looked like a giant snarl of metal. Three teenagers were standing beside it, and although he was glad that it appeared no one was hurt, he hated them for a moment.

There was a Starbucks just before he had to turn left into his building’s parking garage, and he thought about getting out and using the restroom, but just then, there was another hard buildup of pressure and another spurt of urine, enough to stain the fabric around his fly. He couldn’t be seen like this, and he wasn’t sure he could even make it anyway. He imagined himself walking through the Starbucks and having an accident in front of everyone before he reached the toilet, and felt sick with embarrassment. He was going to have to get from his car to his apartment on the seventh floor without pissing his pants and without being seen, somehow.

After he parked, he shut his eyes for a second before he buttoned his fly, squeezing himself hard as he did it. It was so much harder to hold it with his pants pressing into his stomach, and standing up almost did him in. He had to do a dance like a little boy, ass out, hand between his legs, before he got himself under control again. He held his laptop case in front of him to hide the big, obvious wet stain on his pants and began the journey to his apartment, keys clutched tight in his hand so he could save himself precious seconds searching for them.

The garage was badly lit, but the inside of the building was not, and when he looked down he could see how wet his pants were. His face was burning hot, and he was having trouble thinking of anything but the pressure building between his legs, the panicked certainty that he was about to let go. He had hoped that in the elevator, he could hold onto his cock and prevent more leaking, but as the doors opened, someone came up behind him and they entered the elevator at the same time. He could only divert his attention away for a second to see who was beside him, and blushed even more when he realized it was the guy from the sixth floor, Jake or Joe or something, who Eddie privately thought was really hot.

The distraction was almost a disaster. Another spurt came out, and then another. As they passed the second floor, he stared unseeingly into the mirrored wall of the elevator while he gradually wet his underwear. It began to drip slowly down his thigh, tickling him. His heart raced faster, hard enough that he thought he might faint. Jake or Joe gave him a polite smile in the mirror, but he couldn’t smile back. He was frozen in place, watching his reflection to see if it was obvious he was wetting his pants. Just under the bottom edge of the laptop case, he thought he could see a thin stain spreading down his pant leg.

At last, the elevator opened on the sixth floor. Eddie stayed stock still until the doors had closed again behind Jake or Joe, and then he grabbed his dick and squeezed himself so hard it hurt. It wasn’t any use. Urine was beginning to pulse out of his cock in hard jerks, and the warmth had begun to spread to his ass and down the backs of his thighs as he reached the seventh floor. He shoved between the doors before they were fully opened and hobbled down the hall just as the jets of urine came together faster and faster until they became a stream, hissing in the silence of the hallway. He rushed to his door, forgetting his surroundings entirely, his only desire to get inside his apartment and to the toilet.

It was too late. He lost control completely the moment his key slid into the lock, fingers trembling. Even as he turned the doorknob, he flooded his pants. Clenching down did nothing; his muscles had given in, and he was pissing so hard it was going directly through his pants and onto the carpet in front of his door. Heat and wetness spread through his underwear, up his ass, down his thighs, and nearly to his calves before he had even opened the door and run inside, dropping his laptop case on the floor with a thud and racing blindly to the bathroom. He undid his pants as he ran, pissing through his underwear onto his hand when he tried in vain to squeeze himself and stop wetting. His pants forced the liquid to flow over his knees and begin trickling down his shins as well as gushing over the backs of his thighs and calves and finally into his shoes.

At the toilet at last, he lifted the lid, shoved the front of his underwear down, and pissed for only a few seconds before he was finished. His overtaxed bladder tried to push more out, but it was empty and only spasmed a few times. Gasping, he lowered the toilet seat and lid and staggered away from the toilet. He pulled up the front of his underwear without thinking and moaned when the wet fabric, already beginning to cool, touched his cock. He couldn’t understand what had happened, couldn’t make himself accept the reality of it. _I did it in my pants_ , he thought in horror, staring at the trail of wetness leading from the door to the toilet.

His back hit the wall and he found himself sitting down on the bathroom floor hard, and without any warning, he started to cry. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. Middle school, maybe. Even two hours before, if someone had asked what it would take to make him cry, he would have said only his mother’s death could do it, but here he was sat on the floor of his bathroom, his face buried in the arms he had crossed over his wet knees, sobbing loudly like a little kid. He heard himself doing it and on one level, where he normally thought and understood things, he was horrified, but the rest of him was too upset to care.

It took nearly forty-five minutes for him to finally wind down and stop. He sat up after a while and felt himself become Edward Kaspbrak again, an adult, taking stock of his situation. He wiped his eyes and nose on the sleeve of his shirt. Everything was wet, he thought, and that set off a shiver through his entire body that felt…he didn’t want to admit it, but it felt good.

There was deep, deep humiliation, of course. He didn’t think he was ever going to be able to get in his car again without feeling a crippling wave of shame. There was something else in it, though. While part of him didn’t even want to look down and see the mess he had made, or think about it ever again, another part wanted to think about it, wanted to push on it like a button. _You peed your pants. You couldn’t hold it and had an accident like a toddler who should still be in diapers,_ that part said gleefully. It was the same feeling he’d gotten when he had first lost control and he couldn’t stop looking at the damp spot and touching it, rubbing it in: the humiliating truth that even if he made it to the bathroom, he had still peed in his underwear.

He took off his shoes and stood, grimacing as his cold, soggy pants clung to his legs. Even his suit jacket was wet at the hem, the fine material damp and dark along the edges. He shrugged it off and laid it on the sink, and began to unbutton his shirt, focusing on the buttons and refusing to look up into the mirror over the sink or the full-length mirror on the door. _Just get clean and dry_ , he thought, the same way he encouraged himself when he was exercising. _Don’t think about it, just change and shower_. And then that part of him, the part that wanted to think about it, reminded him once more that he was uncomfortable because he had wet his pants like a baby. He set his shirt on top of the suit jacket and finally caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror.

Even though he knew what he was going to see, it was still a shock. He was wet from his fly down to his ankles, and when he turned around to see how bad it was from the back, the only dry areas were down the outer sides of his legs and at the very top of his pants, lighter grey against the dark, wet material. His white t-shirt was wet up to his navel. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, nose red, lips still trembling. There was just no way around it: anyone looking at him right now would see a grown man who was crying because he had pissed his pants. _Crybaby_ , he thought. The humiliation was so raw he could barely breathe, but there it was again: he was shivering, goose bumps rising on his arms. His cock was stiffening, he realized with a painful sort of pleasure, and his nipples too. How was that possible? Every glimpse of himself in the mirror made him harder. With shaking hands, he undid his pants and pushed them off, along with his socks. The feeling of air on his bare, wet legs made him shiver again.

His white underwear were completely see-through, and obviously wet. There was a moment of shock again, and then that pinching humiliation and the pleasure that came with it. He could see the entirety of his cock, already so hard he could barely keep from touching it, and his balls, heavy and drawn up tight. Little droplets ran down his thighs, through his wet leg hair.

His eyes filled with tears again and he pushed them away, feeling…something too strange to handle. The sight of himself in his shirt and wet underwear, crying because he hadn’t made it to the bathroom in time and had peed in his pants, that he had _had an_ _accident_ , was doing something to him he couldn’t explain and didn’t really want to. He touched the sodden fabric of his underwear and gasped, sliding his fingers over his cock.

The wet material rubbing against his heated skin made him shiver again. His knees were as shaky as his hands and his breathing, and he propped himself up with one palm flat on the door beside the mirror, squeezing his cock at last through his underwear. He was already so close. It took one stroke and one senseless sentence running through his head ( _He saw me pee my pants like a baby_ , he thought, and couldn’t figure out who he’d been thinking of afterward) and he came, spurting in his underwear once more. Totally overwhelmed, he whimpered through it, knees giving for a moment until he caught himself more firmly against the door. He had never come like this before; he always kept it contained and tidy and silent, as much to keep it from himself as from his mother. But now he felt like he’d lost control a second time, fucking into his fist for what felt like for fucking _ever_. He stayed like that, with his face hidden in the crook of his arm, leaning against the door, exhausted.

That was the first time.

_

It was easy not to think about it. He worked a lot, and after he met Myra, he had even less time to himself, no time to remember how much he had _liked_ having an accident at the age of thirty. The only time it showed up was when he was trying to come, which was something he had always struggled to do when he was with another person. Myra had even less experience with sex than he had and let him lead the way, and it took him nearly a year to work himself up to it. When he finally did, he was so afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay hard, or that he wouldn’t be able to come if he did, that he fell back on the most reliable method of getting himself to orgasm: thinking about the time he’d wet his pants.

A few times he tentatively wondered what it would be like if Myra knew about it. She would take him to the doctor, and he would be forced to admit it out loud. He’d have to say “I wet my pants” to another person. The words were so humiliating that even thinking them made him want to hide under the covers, but it never failed to make him come. The fantasy evolved. He’d confess that he had wet his pants, and the doctor would tell him there was nothing physically wrong with him, he was just a crybaby who couldn’t hold it. Understandable, given the way his mother had raised him. He’d protest that he hadn’t had accidents as a kid – although he had, hadn’t he, a few times? – and the doctor would say in a kind, soft voice, “Maybe you just need someone to help you act like an adult.” He thought up all kinds of bizarre punishments for himself – spankings, diapers, having his wet pants hung up for everyone to see – but he always circled back on the initial one, wetting his pants and having to admit it.

He got off to that far too often, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want Myra involved. At first he thought it was because he didn’t want to taint her with something so fucked up, but as they were married months and then years, he knew it was because he didn’t want her in his fantasies at all. It wasn’t that he didn’t want _her_ – he didn’t want anyone there, not a real person. It was always a faceless man who would tickle him or spank him or simply refuse to allow him to use the bathroom until he shamefacedly wet himself. The man was never mean to him and he never knew how badly Eddie had to go, and when it happened and Eddie was forced to confess, sometimes…well, sometimes the man would kiss him.

Eddie was more embarrassed about that part of his fantasy than anything else. Whenever he indulged in it, he wouldn’t let himself do it again, waiting until Myra reached out to him. It didn’t matter if he was almost crying with desperation. In fact, that made it a little better. He liked to be desperate.

-

Moving in with Richie, after everything was said and done, was an exercise in desperation.

It wasn’t just because Eddie loved him. He had handled that as a kid and he could handle it now. Loving Richie and not doing anything about it was a piece of cake compared to the rest of it, because Eddie _wanted him_. No, more than wanted him. Richie was allowed in his fantasies, and after a month or two of letting his imagination go to town, he realized Richie had always been there. The faceless person in his daydreams was always Richie, and it was probably because the daydreams had sprung directly from him.

He could remember all of it now. He’d been fifteen, he thought, maybe sixteen. Far too old, but who was he to judge? He and Richie were in the clubhouse alone – no one left in Derry except the two of them and Mike, who couldn’t always hang out. Eddie was sitting on one of the cushions they’d scrounged, leaning against the wall and reading Heart of Darkness for Honors English. Richie was sitting in the hammock like it was a swing, talking without needing a response. Eddie was listening, though. He’d given up reading as soon as Richie started, but you couldn’t admit things like that to Richie or it would go to his head.

“And old Randolph, he’s never gonna let me pass,” Richie said with a dramatic sigh. “Not without sacrificing a few of my fingers.”

Eddie felt himself start to laugh and pushed it down, because he was still pretending to ignore him, but he also had to pee. It was on the verge of getting uncomfortable, and he knew he should get up and go outside, but waited because it felt kind of good. He liked to hold it until it almost hurt a little bit, even though he knew he was courting all kinds of medical problems. Or maybe he wasn’t. He still couldn’t be sure which things his mother had lied about and which she hadn’t. He had always liked to wait, ever since he was a little boy and his mother had told him he must always try not to use public bathrooms. He’d wait, and wait, and sometimes he’d have an accident before he could make it to the bathroom at home.

“I know you didn’t mean to act like a baby,” his mother would chide him. “But it’s dangerous to hold it that long.”

Torn between the spectres of germs all over the urinals at school and wetting his pants on the walk home, he always chose the one that ended with a warm bath and his mother comforting him. It hadn’t happened for a few years, though not enough years ago for Eddie’s comfort. He had been twelve or so the last time he’d suffered through an entire day of school only to pee right when he got to the bathroom door. Something had happened that made him loosen up about the germs after that, but he couldn’t really remember what it was.

“Maybe if you stopped calling him old Randolph to his face, he’d let you pass,” Eddie said. “If I can do it, anyone can.”

“No, you’re good at all that crap, mechanic stuff,” Richie said. “I’m gonna have to make a fucking clock for extra credit. Me and the bandsaw, Eds. I’ll have to jerk off with a hook.”

Something about the way Richie said it and the way he moved his hand, like he was stabbing his dick with an imaginary hook, struck Eddie as funny, and he dropped his book on his chest and laughed long and hard. It made his bladder twinge and he stopped, feeling a squirmy sort of pleasure, as he always did, when he thought, _Don’t you dare pee your pants_. Because he wasn’t going to…but sometimes he did imagine it happening again, when he was in the shower and trying not to think about other things.

“What are you laughing at?” Richie said. “Who do you think is taking me to the emergency room when I try to wipe my ass and get the hook stuck?”

Eddie laughed again, surprised into it, and couldn’t stop laughing at the glum, dopey face Richie made, like a hook up his ass was inevitable and he was just waiting for it to happen. His bladder twinged again and he tried to stop laughing, but he couldn’t quite catch himself, and with a horrible sense of familiarity, he felt the muscles loosen and let go. Warmth spread through his underwear in a gush. He cut off his own laughter, groaning, “Oh no, _no_ ,” and reached down to squeeze himself through his shorts, but it was too late. He was pissing and he couldn’t stop.

“What the fuck?” Richie asked, sitting up straight. His eyes fell on Eddie’s crotch and his mouth dropped open.

“Fuck,” Eddie gasped, leaping to his feet. It was a stupid thing to do; pee ran down his legs and into his shoes, puddling around them. The clubhouse was going to smell like his pee, he thought, before he finally managed to stop pissing. He stared down at himself in disbelief. His shorts were as wet as if he’d gone swimming, dark red and plastered to his legs. He’d wet his pants. No one wet their pants when they were fifteen. That wasn’t something that _happened_.

He looked up at Richie, who was looking at him with his eyes round and shocked behind his glasses. For the rest of his life, Eddie thought, Richie would make fun of him for this. He’d tell _everybody_. Everybody would know. All their friends. Their classmates. His mother.

“Eddie,” Richie said in a low, soft voice. “Are you okay?”

“No, Rich. I fucking _pissed my pants_ ,” he said, and burst into tears. 

“Hey,” Richie said, flailing out of the hammock. “Come here.”

Richie pulled him in for a hug, and Eddie balled up a fist and hit him on the chest, but let Richie hold him. “You made me laugh too hard,” he sobbed. “I can’t believe I – I…”

“It’s okay,” Richie said, rubbing his shoulder clumsily. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll fucking _bet_ ,” Eddie said, pushing Richie away from him so he wouldn’t get wet, but Richie held him tighter. “Why wouldn’t you tell everybody in New England?”

“No, I’ll never tell anybody,” Richie said again, and let Eddie cry on his shoulder for a while. “Hey, there’s a big bottle of water around here somewhere.”

“So?” Eddie asked, sniffling. He pulled away, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders. His shorts were getting really uncomfortable, and he had to fight not to just run home.

“If I pour it on you, it’ll just look like you got wet,” Richie said. “Then you can go home and change.”

“Maybe,” Eddie allowed, but it had worked. He had gone home and changed his clothes, and told Richie he didn’t want to talk that evening when he called. He wasn’t mad at him – it wasn’t Richie’s fault, and Eddie believed him when he said he wouldn’t tell anyone – but he felt humiliated and cut open. He had wet his pants, which was bad enough, but he had done it front of Richie, and worst of all, underneath all the other feelings, he knew there was something about it that he…liked. How fucked up was he? Who would want to be embarrassed like that in front of his best friend, the guy he wanted to be around all the time? But in a tiny fragment of his consciousness, the same tiny fragment where he let himself sometimes imagine Richie with him in the shower, he thought, _Richie saw me pee my pants_ , and it made him feel hot everywhere with something that wasn’t embarrassment.

He spent a long time in the shower, washing that and many other thoughts about Richie down the drain, and hung up his clothes to dry. His mother asked him what had happened and he said he had fallen into a puddle, and his mother didn’t question it even though it hadn’t rained for days. The next afternoon Richie barged into his room while Eddie’s mother was at the store, and Eddie made a show of shouting at him and trying to push him out, but they both knew it was bullshit.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Richie said, looking big and awkward in Eddie’s door.

“Ugh.” Eddie fell back on his bed. “Can we never talk about this ever again?”

“Yeah,” Richie said eagerly, darting into the room. “It never happened. I swear.”

“Good,” Eddie said. “Talk about literally anything else.”

Richie took him up on that and didn’t stop talking for almost an hour. It was almost time for supper, and Eddie had heard his mother come home. She wouldn’t be pleased to see Richie in the house, but ever since eighth grade, or sometime thereabouts, she had stopped kicking Eddie’s friends out all the time. It was too much to ask Richie not to antagonize his mother, but today Richie didn’t have anything to say to her. All his attention was on Eddie.

“Hey,” he said, standing up to leave. He wiped his hands on his jeans, and stopped Eddie from opening the bedroom door to see him out.

“What?” Eddie asked.

“Nothing, just…” Richie wrapped his long arms around Eddie and squeezed him tight.

“You don’t need to be _nice_ to me just because I acted like a baby,” Eddie said, scowling and pushing at him, his eyes welling up.

“I’m not,” Richie said, and did something Eddie thought about all the time until he forgot about everything. He pressed a dry, gentle kiss to Eddie’s cheek, and whispered, “Don’t be sad, Eds.”

Eddie watched him leave, shocked into silence, and they never talked about it again.

-

Eddie wasn’t sure he would have agreed to move in with Richie if he’d remembered that. It didn’t come back to him until about two weeks into the new arrangement, when he came back from a run around Richie’s gated complex – his gated complex too, for the time being – and had to piss like a racehorse. He shuffled to the downstairs bathroom fast and saw that Richie was in it, and bit his lip as he ran up the stairs to the bathroom on the second floor. _Jesus, you asshole_ , he thought, _you shouldn’t have had coffee before you left, don’t you dare pee your pants_ , and the memory ripped through him like all the others.

He made it to the toilet, but barely. _I almost had an accident again_ , he thought, and his cock was suddenly so hard that he stood there and stroked himself fast for not even twenty seconds before he was coming all over his Under Armour shirt, his breath bursting out in gasps. He did it again in the shower, and felt like it was written on his forehead when he came out for breakfast.

“What’s with you?” Richie asked after he had put his hand on Eddie’s back in the kitchen and Eddie had dropped his thankfully empty coffee mug on the counter.

“Nothing,” he said. “Fine.”

He curled up on the couch with his coffee and watched Richie and pretended he wasn’t watching him, remembering the horrible, wonderful feeling of losing control, and the feeling of Richie kissing his cheek. It wasn’t fair of him to fantasize about Richie like this, he knew that, but he decided to let himself go for a week, get it out of his system, and then tell it to fuck off like he had before.

Because they were in a good place, he and Richie. The first few weeks after Derry, things were a bit touch and go. Richie had checked out of the Town House and left for LA only a few hours after they were finished killing the clown. He hadn’t even hugged Eddie, just patted him on the shoulder and took off, his eyes wild. The rest of the Losers kept in close contact in the group chat, but Richie was in and out. It wasn’t until Eddie finally called him and left a voicemail saying, “Hey, Rich, hope everything’s good in LA. I’m fine. I’m fucking great. Call me back so I don’t go back to my wife, you dick,” that they came together again, and this time it stuck. Eddie wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t split up with Myra. He was starting to suspect that Richie would have fucked off forever, or at least remained at a tantalizing distance, never near enough for Eddie to get anything real out of him.

Instead, Richie had said, “I heard there are risks in Los Angeles,” and that was as far as he needed to go before Eddie was in one of the three spare bedrooms in Richie’s condo. He was forty, he was unemployed, he was separated-heading-for-divorce, and he was sharing a place with the love of his life, who was, in Eddie’s judgment, a real fucking idiot.

It was beautiful.

_Don’t fuck this up_ , he told himself, watching the way Richie’s big hands cupped his stupid fucking World’s Okayest Comedian mug. _What do you even fucking want from him?_

_Well_ , he thought. _I guess I want that man to fuck me._

He had grown used to the solitary, internal fantasy life he had developed when he forgot Derry. It was just him and his humiliation. Wanting sex was new – not altogether new; he had thought about sex a lot as a teenager, but when he started to forget, the world of his desires shrank to what he imagined his lungs might look like, shriveled and grey. The unforgetting was even faster than the forgetting, and he had caught himself looking at Richie right after they had killed the clown, when they jumped in the quarry, looking at the way he walked and thinking _I bet your cock is big. I bet if I rode you I’d come so fast_ , with a shower of sparks trickling down his spine. Richie had caught him looking and Eddie thought that might be why he fled so fast, because if a tenth of what he was feeling was on his face, he probably looked like the tiger he always swore he had seen in the Barrens when they were little. He had never been very good at hiding anything, except from himself.

But now here he was in Richie’s house, and he still felt like that tiger, and Richie didn’t seem to even notice. It was better that way. He’d get past whatever hangups he had about Richie, get past the fucked up fantasies that had gotten tangled up in sex over time. Get a therapist. Get a job. Get a dick in him.

He sighed.

“Hmmm?” Richie asked.

“Hey,” he began. “Do you think I’m a baby?”

“Yup.”

“No, seriously,” he said. “Am I, like, an adult?”

“You and Stan have been ancient since birth,” Richie said, taking a big slurp of coffee. “So yeah. Small in stature, old as balls.”

“Fuck you,” Eddie said, gathering his coffee and his bagel and preparing to go upstairs to his room.

“Eds, no, no, hold it.” Richie stood up, looking so cosy in his flannel pants and t-shirt that Eddie wanted to fall asleep on his chest. He put his hands heavily on Eddie’s shoulders. “Your mom worked hard to make you dependent on her forever, but you’re a grown ass man. Nobody would ever think anything else about you.”

“Thanks,” he said. For once, he was glad he always looked like he was frowning. _What the fuck did you want him to say?_ he asked himself. _Did you want him to remember that accident and say yes? Did you want to confess? See if he’ll hold you and kiss you because you’re upset?_

Yes, he did.

“Why do you look like I told you kale is full of cholesterol?” Richie asked. He hadn’t let go, but his thumbs moved back and forth on Eddie’s shoulders.

“I almost wet my pants earlier,” he said, his face burning. He couldn’t meet Richie’s eyes. “I remembered that time, the time we were in high school and I…”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Richie said. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, stopped, and shook his head. Richie took the coffee cup and bagel from his hands, set them on the table, and wrapped Eddie up in his arms. He hadn’t had a hug like that in decades, probably since the last time he’d seen Richie before they forgot, and he didn’t bother to pretend. He put his head on Richie’s shoulder and wanted him.

“Poor Eds,” Richie murmured. “You want me to talk until you forget about it?”

“I can’t really forget it. It happens,” he said.

“Do you need to see a doctor?”

“No. I just wait too long sometimes.” He closed his eyes and basked in Richie’s warmth for a second longer before he pulled away. “I need to set an alarm or something.”

An expression passed over Richie’s face that Eddie couldn’t read. “I’ll remind you,” he said. “I’ll annoy you so much, dude. You’ll have to go out of self-defense.”

“Just don’t make me laugh,” Eddie said, and neither of them could look at each other.

“I felt so awful about that,” Richie said, clearing his throat.

“You shouldn’t have. It was my fault. It’s not like you held me down and tickled me,” Eddie said. Unbelievably, he was getting hard for a third time just saying the words out loud. “I had an accident because I waited too long to go, like always.”

“Well, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Richie said. “I hate it when you’re sad. You look like a Monchichi.”

“I will _actually_ kill you in your sleep,” Eddie said, snatching up his breakfast and making a run for it before he went crazy and climbed Richie like the dumbass maple tree he was.

-

“It’s nine o’clock,” Richie said that night.

“Mm-hmm,” he agreed.

“Did you…did you go to the bathroom?”

“No?” He looked up from his laptop, where he was updating his resume, and saw Richie staring at the television with great determination, his face flushed red. “Oh. You were serious.”

“I told you, I don’t want you to be sad,” Richie said.

Eddie knew he was turning red too, because he could feel heat creeping down his face and neck. “Thank you,” he said softly, and got up to go to the bathroom.

-

“It’s noon,” Richie said. Announcing the time seemed to be his preferred method of reminding Eddie.

“Yeah, just a second,” Eddie said. He was almost finished folding the laundry while the two of them watched the Transformers episodes Richie still had on VHS, recorded with the commercials and all.

“After this episode?”

“I can hold it,” he said.

“I know,” Richie said. “I just don’t want you to forget.”

He struggled to keep his breath even, but he couldn’t concentrate on the rest of the episode, and when it was over he rushed to the bathroom and came almost before he had pulled his cock out, spilling all over his underwear and the fly of his pants. He had to change his pants, and realized belatedly that Richie would think he hadn’t made it to the toilet. He was bright red when he came back into the living room. Richie held up his arms and Eddie climbed into them and watched the next few episodes that way.

-

“You can tell me to go fuck myself any time, you know,” Richie said after a week. He was standing in the doorway of the room Eddie had decided to use as an office. “I won’t be mad.”

“I’d tell you to go fuck yourself if I wanted you to go fuck yourself,” Eddie said. “Do I seem like I mind?”

“No,” Richie admitted. “But that’s fucking weird. You’re always annoyed by me.”

“I’m annoyed when you’re annoying.” Eddie turned around in his new desk chair. “This isn’t annoying. I think I need it.”

“Oh.” Richie nodded awkwardly. “Sure, sure, sure.”

He left, but reappeared after a minute.

“I know, I’m going to the bathroom,” Eddie said before he could speak.

-

But one morning, a few weeks later, Richie wasn’t awake yet when Eddie went out for a run. It was a close repeat of the time he had almost had an accident, but by the time he got back he had to piss even worse. The last twenty feet before he got to the condo, he couldn’t run anymore and had his hand between his legs, and his fingers were shaking so much he dropped his keys. He bent over and picked them up, and as he stood, he wet his underwear.

“Fuck, fuck,” he panted, unlocking the door and racing inside, through the living room, down the hall to the downstairs bathroom. The door was closed, the light on. He slapped his palm on it, giving a wordless shout. His muscles gave a little more and he felt that familiar pinch before he started to lose control. “Richie, hurry the fuck _up_.”

Too late, too late. He felt the surge of warmth flooding out of his cock and into his underwear, into his running shorts, down his legs, soaking his socks and sneakers. It pattered onto the wooden floor just as the bathroom door opened and Richie, astonished, watched him wet his pants in a long, warm rush. For a few seconds after he had finished, the only sound was residual droplets falling from his shorts to the floor in a soft, steady tap.

“Rich,” he said, chin trembling. He still clutched his keys, and dropped them abruptly.

“No, Eddie, fuck,” Richie said, pulling him into his arms with a hand on the back of his head. “It’s okay.”

“ _Richie_ ,” he sobbed. He knew he sounded heartbroken.

“Eddie, please don’t cry,” Richie said desperately, turning Eddie’s face up to his. “Please, baby.”

And suddenly, several things clicked into place. Richie lifted both hands to cup Eddie’s face, brushing the tears from his cheeks. They were so close that Eddie could feel the big, hard bulge of his cock against the wet front of his shorts. He was soaking through Richie’s sweatpants, he thought, and Richie – Richie _liked it_.

Eddie held onto Richie’s shoulders and leaned up, and Richie met him halfway and kissed him. His mouth was hot and gentle, even as he backed Eddie up to the wall and urged him to move his hips until they were rubbing against each other, clumsy and wet. It felt so good Eddie whimpered, low and shaky, into Richie’s mouth like he was about to lose control again. Richie reached down to squeeze his ass, and they moved together until Eddie was so close, his cockhead pushing against the rough material of his soaked underwear, that he had to break the kiss so he could breathe.

“Here, let’s get your pants off,” Richie said, and knelt to help him take off his wet shoes and socks, sliding his sopping shorts down but, Eddie noted, leaving his grey briefs on.

“They’re wet too,” he said, squirming.

“Can’t believe you wet them.” Richie’s voice was full of awe. He seemed transfixed by the line between the dry and wet fabric, rubbing it with his thumb. His hand was so close to Eddie’s cock, and he stroked it through the wet underwear almost absently before he pulled them down as well. He stood and kissed Eddie again, and again, and again, tugging off Eddie’s shirt in between.

“Rich, fucking come on, if you don’t get your dick in me I’m gonna cry,” Eddie said, reaching for Richie’s hips. His sweatpants were dark and wet across the front where he’d been pressed against Eddie, moulded sharply around his cock. He undid the drawstring and shoved them off – no underwear, fucking typical, Eddie thought, as if he wasn’t so eager to see Richie naked he would have tossed all his clothes out the window – and Eddie felt himself getting more and more wound up at the sight of his big, thick dick. _I fucking knew it_ , he thought, ferociously triumphant. _That’s mine_.

“You want me to fuck you?” Richie whispered. At any other time, Eddie might have thought he was being an asshole, but he seemed stunned.

“Yes, like _now_ , before I come,” Eddie said, opening up the cabinet under the sink and rooting around for lube or condoms.

“On the right in the back,” Richie said, and Eddie pulled out a small hand pump dispenser and a strip of condoms, slapping them on the sink counter.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Eddie asked when he had turned around to face Richie again. He still looked shocked stupid.

“Yeah,” he said. “I feel like I’m hallucinating. Say something to let me know you’re the real Eddie.”

“Your Steve Irwin impression sounds like a duck,” Eddie said. Richie smiled, big and happy and dumb, with his whole body, pulling Eddie close and kissing him while he got his fingers slick and slowly, slowly spread Eddie open on them. There was a smooth ache that came with it, an ache he associated with the times he had waited to come until he needed it so bad he would have begged for it. It was heavy between his legs and he had to tell Richie to stop twice because he’d pushed him so close to coming that he was riding the edge of it.

“All right, turn around,” Richie said, kissing Eddie all the way down his spine when he obeyed and held onto the edges of the sink. He didn’t want to see himself in the mirror above it, so he watched Richie instead, his face serious and intent on the task before him. Richie closed his eyes in pleasure when he rolled the condom onto his cock, and then that beautiful, big cock was sliding inside him. He felt it all the way down the backs of his legs to his toes, the way it stretched and filled him and hit him right where he hadn't even known he needed it.

“Is it good, Rich?” he asked, sounding and feeling drunk. “Does it feel good?”

“Eddie, I can’t even think,” Richie panted. He ran his hands over Eddie’s back before he settled them on his hips, holding him there so he could press into him tight and slow, almost grinding. On the fourth stroke Eddie lost it and let go, pulsing around his cock, coming in thick spurts onto the floor and the cabinet doors, moaning through gritted teeth. Richie sped up for a second and then pushed into him hard, crying out suddenly in what seemed like desperate, bewildering relief.

He met Eddie’s eyes in the mirror as they both came down, exhausted, and Eddie let him see everything. Their conversation was silent, but by the end of it Eddie knew Richie loved him, and he wasn’t sure Richie understood how he felt, but there were better times to lay it all out for him than right now, when he realized he had to clean up a puddle of piss in the hall and come all over the front of the sink. Richie pulled out of him a little too fast and then soothed him by holding him until he said, “No more, I can’t take it. Go get the mop.”

They cleaned up fast. Eddie, dropping paper towels over the puddle, blushed and glared at the floor.

“What?” Richie asked, gathering the wet clothes. Eddie shook his head, and Richie grinned. “You like cleaning it up, don’t you?”

“Maybe.” He turned his back to Richie and listened to him laughing.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Richie said. “It’s just pee. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s way, way more than just pee,” Eddie muttered.

“All right, you got me there,” he said. Later, when they had showered and eaten and then gave up on the day and just got into bed again, he said, “So you like to piss your pants, is that the deal?”

“Yeah,” Eddie admitted. “Since some asshole made me do it when I was fifteen.”

“I felt so guilty.” Richie rolled over and threw his arm over his eyes, groaning. “Not only did you wet your pants, it gave me, like, a sexual awakening.”

“Me too,” Eddie said. “And then it had twenty-five years to percolate and get even more fucked up.”

“That makes me feel better for being so horny about it,” Richie said. “Shit, maybe I should be glad I only remembered a few weeks ago.”

Eddie’s fantasies, while satisfying, were always laced with discomfort and more than a bit of disappointment, because when he came, the shame rushed in without any leavening arousal. The stray kiss from a faceless man made it worse, shame on top of shame. He was surprised not to feel any of that now – shame without pleasure, the kind that always dug in after the fantasy was over – but maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Richie made everything better. For the first time, he wasn’t bothered by the fact that the things that got him off were strange. He and Richie had grown in that direction together, without even knowing it.

“You kinda like whatever I like, huh?” Eddie asked. The thought caught hold inside him and grew, and he smiled with it.

“That’s my jam,” Richie said simply. “If it gets you going, it gets me going.”

“Oh,” Eddie said. “You should warn everyone in the chat that we’re gonna be too busy to talk for a few weeks.”

“Eddie, please say you’re making a spreadsheet,” Richie said. “I deserve this. Do you know how many telethons I’ve done? _Three_.”

“I’m not making a fucking spreadsheet,” Eddie lied, and went to get his laptop. 


End file.
